


Never Say Die

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Academia, Alcohol, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Suffers Again, Ben is a dick, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fights, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Making Out, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Reader Is Also A Dick, SEXUAL TENSION X100, THIS FIC IS PURE UNADULTERATED SEXUAL TENSION, alpha reader, melt or die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-10-04 04:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17297654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: The most embarrassing whimper cuts his throat: low and dark and desperately anxious. The plasticky smell almost seems eclipsed by a whole new curl of fragrances; too fast for you to comprehend. Spicy, delicious, intolerably strange. Synthetic and not. Laced with so many drugs that confusion rattles your gut."Alpha" he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as his breathing comes in thick and fast "please".





	1. When The Party's Over

**Author's Note:**

> You think you know the story.  
> You don't.

The student union smells like a pit of hormones.

It's not, what you'd call, a refined space. Not by any means. Mostly, it's crammed with the wild pheremones of unmated Alphas; pulsing in time with the music, eclipsing the regular waft of Beta and Omega scents. Mingling in your nose, it's unmistakable: bitter, raw spice. Woody. Other Alphas make your hair prickle - confined spaces and sweaty bodies make you want to claim out some territory. Bark at anyone who steps a little too close.

But this isn't undergraduate school. You're not walking into the pit of death.

Breathe.

"Vodka coke" Rey grins, handing you a rippled glass of dark liquid. She's got this look about her; the one all those Omegas do. Dark, short cut hair: femininity in the curve of her jaw. Her scent _radiates_ life. Something crisp and beautiful and oddly feminine; decidedly radiant. She smells like fresh oranges, like sugar and scones and crisp apples. They all do - they all smell like that. Like something delectable. A delicious food; a warm comfort. You know plenty of Omegas - well, plenty of female ones.

Fucking figures.

You wrap your fingers around the cool glass; pulling it to your lips and downing it. A buzz in your pocket: two buzzes. Probably Finn filling up your voicemail box with drunken calls about seeing a cute dog or something.

"Gonna nip outside. There's..." you gesture with your hands eccentrically, earning a huffed laugh from Rey. She's good like that - the closest friend you've got, easily. She listens. Gets your erratic humour.

"Stay out of trouble, buddy. And if you see-"

"-Yeah, yeah. I've got it" you huff "go for the jugular."

She toasts you as you shuffle through the crowd; pulsing bodies rammed too close together. The booths are utterly squashed in: leather sticky with stale beer and old musky scents. Your head is nearly pounding in time with the music - is this place ever even cleaned down? Is disinfectant really that hard to come by?

But the balcony is so much better; the summer night air hitting your skin and cooling the sweat on your brow. Your dress flutters in the breeze. Nothing fancy - short and black. Red lipstick. A dash of eyeliner. You don't want any of these schmucks getting any ideas. It's not shameful; not even a little. Being an Alpha doesn't make you  _lesser._ Maybe, when you were a teenager, that shit clung to you like a thin sheen of sweat - but times are changing. Female Alphas don't get shirked like they used to anymore. Hell, there's even some...some _real_ and legitimate sense that you're something special. Something to be curated.

Which is easy for them to say. Easy for Betas to sit back and sip their lot. You're not ungrateful - you're not. The whole obsession with Alpha and Omega pairings being the only way to get by is gross and outdated and tasteless. 

That doesn't stop the pining, though.

"Thought you didn't like this place."

It's a voice that sends your lip curling; turning you to whirl around on the concrete floor as your hand braces yourself against the wooden balcony.

Ben _fucking_ Solo.

"That's none of your business, Solo."

He licks his lip - and it fucks you off. Everything about him fucks you off, in some sort of...some sort of systemic domino effect of bullshit only he can pull off.

The guy's your absolute, grade A-type bullshit ass arrogant Alpha prick. Built like a brick house; ripping muscles all stuffed under a button up shirt. The top buttons are always just a little disheveled - as though he's trying to shove his scent glands right up into unsuspecting faces. Tousled black hair, pointed nose. Bumpy. Like he's broken it one too many times from putting it where it isn't wanted. Brown eyes. Pouty lips. Freckles.

He's hot - of course he's hot. He had to be hot, didn't he? He can't leave anything to chance. That's not how Ben Solo works. He doesn't _do_ that whole _fumbling_ student schtick you see in 9am tutorials. He's pressed, he's on time. Law student or something. Rich parents.

Prick. 

"Cat got your tongue?" he clucks, flashing a slight smirk at you as he shoves his hands in his pockets. His pheromones dart off in all directions: punchy and heady. Like dragging a spoon of cinnamon over your lips. Your Alpha senses keen upward: eyes heavy on his. Keep him in your gaze. If he lunges; you'll be faster.

"Sorry; I'm curious. Did my tone not spell it out for you? Won't you just _fuck off?"_

He mockingly rolls his eyes; chewing the inside of his cheek. His nostrils flare as he takes you in: no doubt weighing up how much he can torment you before you snap and bite off his head.

"Something I said?"

Your grip on the balcony railing tightens. A group of students shuffle by; Ben's tall form shuffles closer to you. 

Your chest threatens a rumble.

"She was cut up, you know" you spit, pulling up an index finger and jabbing it at his chest. "You spend three weeks following her around like she's your one and only, and then her heat comes and you promise to be there, and you just...dissolve? Without so much as a text?"

Rage darts from your pores; heady and thick. You can almost smell it yourself - you imagine half the Alphas at this bar can smell it, too. Soaking into the walls.

Ben doesn't flinch.

"If you're so worried" he shrugs, brow darting upward "you're her best friend. Why don't you just-"

You fucking tried. You tried. But you hear the air leave Ben's lungs as you throw him up against the brickwork; fisting at the top of his collar as your chest heaves. His pupils dilate thickly; anger, surprise. He's surprised. Part of you knows that's the only reason you were able to force him back up to the wall - he's probably two hundred pounds, easily. He could easily just throw you from the ledge of the balcony.

Scents dance in your periphery. You're drawing an audience. Alpha fighting Alpha. It's a dance as old as dances can be.

"Shut up" you hiss; baring your teeth as you lean up on the balls of your feet. "Before I rip your throat out through your nose."

Ben's pheromones are point blank shooting you in the face; and now you're closer, they're...entangled. Plasticky. The cinnamon smells like that shitty syrup you get in coffee shops - it's marred with chemical dryness that oozes from the pores in his neck. It's a smell that comes with blockers - illegal blockers. They help Alphas stop rutting on every poor Omega in their periphery. But Ben's are disgustingly strong - which just about figures. Figures he'd be a sex addict.

He eyes you with a heaving chest; projecting threatening undertones, challenging you to act.

You're so sick of him.

"You smell like shitty blockers" you growl. "They're illegal. Or do you not give a fuck about the law so long as you're the one applying it?"

It's absolutely one hundred percent not something anyone in civil society would ever, ever bring up. But you've snapped - you're too far gone. Rey is wonderful; she's your closest friend, and he'd rather see her treated like dirt than admit his own misgivings or fears. He deserves this. Worse than this.

Something fractures. Ben's pupils swallow his iris; his scent scatters. In that momentary weight of shock, his head dips just enough that his gland is exposed to you - exposed just enough that it's a subconscious victory. Submission keens at his spine as you hum deep in your chest; adrenaline flooding you as his pheromones relent to yours. It must be humiliating for him - an Alpha so arrogant, so highly regarded - to submit to your gritty gaze.

"They're legal" he says dryly.

You scoff; letting go of his shirt.

"Right."

And just like that: Ben's gaze drifts to the crowds. Away from you. Eyes down. It's victory; you can taste it.

"Tell me why, then" you shrug angrily, folding your arms over your chest "if you're not hiding anything: _tell me why."_

Alpha voice breaks through: and Ben's hands shake in his pockets. He's trying to fight it; trying to fight a direct order from a victorious sparring partner.

His plush lip trembles. You're acutely aware of just how anxious he is - just how much he's suddenly, irrevocably fearful under your watch. It's something heady and odd and dangerous - something you don't quite understand. Perhaps he's not the arrogant prick you see him for.

"...Don't ask me to do that" he whines. He tries so, so hard to use his Alpha voice - but it's a mess. His voice wavers as though he's a teenage boy - wavering with uncertainty, with darting inflections. It only weakens his position as he huffs a breath, trying to move away from you and back into the safety of the pulsing bar.

You maintain your gaze. Lip set. Jaw square.

Ben pushes away from the wall; and in a moment of madness, you grasp his wrist.

His pulse flutters so wildly under your hand that it muddies your brain. Your fingers can barely lapse the muscle of his arms; they're huge, bulging things. Hands large and calloused. But even so; you grip as hard as you can. Thumb on his wrist scent gland, an automatic motion with no bearing on any attempts to control him whatsoever. But everything swerves. His dark waves of hair fall across his forehead as he weakly tugs his wrist; as though your grip is iron and not the weakest response imaginable.

His dark eyes are almost raw. He's vibrating with energy; shuddering and shaking in his shirt at your demand. What the fuck? Is he really that high on blockers that your scent is knocking him this hard?

The most embarrassing whimper cuts his throat: low and dark and desperately anxious. The plasticky smell almost seems eclipsed by a whole new curl of fragrances; too fast for you to comprehend. Spicy, delicious, intolerably strange. Synthetic and not. Laced with so many drugs that confusion rattles your gut.

 _"Alpha"_ he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as his breathing comes in thick and fast _"please"._

And just like that; your grip releases. Shock radiates from you as you watch his broad back dart for the exit.

He doesn't look back.


	2. I Dare You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freckles dust the bridge of his nose; the sound of his breathing just lightly wisping through the space between you. His lips tremble just enough to pull you closer; gravity bringing you to him, drawing you in. You're suddenly, acutely aware that beneath the layers of taut muscle and hard bone, there's something...beautiful. Soft. Intense.
> 
> "Ben..." you swallow cautiously; his forehead dipping lightly as he stands a hairs breadth away. Being in this proximity, so close to another Alpha: you should be fearful. Should be. But you can't help yourself; you dip your head lightly, letting him catch the spicy scent at the join between your neck and shoulder.
> 
> "Shit" he whispers - so quietly you're not even sure he's said it at all. "Oh God."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will learn very quickly that I'm making this up as I go along

The nurse's office is astoundingly bright white.

It feels like being a kid, staring off at the TV as static claws at the background. The white bits burn onto your vision: white plaster walls, greyish cloud cover from the pretty white window. Your hand thumps unceremoniously, as if to remind you not to get too comfortable.

The click from the doorway sends your head shooting up; her thick brown hair pulled back and eyes darting through your chart. She flips through blood work results as though she's working through an explanation. When her brow starts actively jolting downward as she taps a nail on one number, you start to feel a little tense.

"Would you mind if I ask you some questions?"

Oh shit.

"Sure, of course." You try to flash a winning smile. Judging by the way her lip curves downward: it only works in part.

She takes a seat opposite you, tucking in her white blouse and fumbling for a pen. Your hand aches again, and you glare at it like it's screwing you over.

"You won't get in trouble" she swallows "this is all entirely confidential. But I need to know, miss, if you've been using any unprescribed hormone therapies."

Your blood runs cold.

What the f-

"I've-" you try to get the words out, but there's a lump in your throat the size of Jupiter "-no. I've never used...not _anything._ I mean, I'm not even on blockers-"

"-And you've never used any prescribed medications intended for use by another designation to alter, deteriorate or otherwise impact symptoms of your designation?"

Of course you haven't. Jesus Christ. What is this? You're here for a fucking allergic reaction to hand cream. This is absurd.

"Never." You shuffle uncomfortably, feeling sweat on your brow. "What's wrong with me? I thought I had an allergic reaction?"

The nurse looks like she's not entirely convinced. She scribbles something out, then jots down a note in the margin of your chart.

"You did. To Fluoxymesterone mixed into Sartarogen. It's a drug combination that's illegal to prescribe, with exception to very specific cases. In some female Alphas, it causes burning, skin degradation, early onsets of ruts and more long-term impacts if untreated."

What.

"How...But I haven't..."

"You haven't come into contact with anyone you suspect could be using Sartarogen to scramble their scent, have you? Sudden increases in vasopressin can cause men to sweat it out and trigger its half-life, which could have rubbed onto your skin."

Contact. Scent. Skin. Illegal. Burning.

Ben. Ben fucking Solo. You grabbed his goddamn wrist five days ago.

WIth the same hand that now looks like you grabbed a red-hot poker iron.

You're going.

To fucking.

Kill.

Him.

* * *

 

Ben's office is in the much nicer, much fancier part of the law building that you've been in. One of the walls to the corridor is entirely made up of glass: from here, you can see a city sprawled forth like a rich tapestry of colour. It's a lot nicer than yours - hell, even the vending machines in the rec rooms of your building don't even work. You've got to rugby tackle them just to get one of those mini-Mars bars from the flappy dispensing bit.

Your boots on the carpet sound, in your ears, like the drums of war. You hope the whole floor can hear you pounding: wrath incarnate. Alpha Woman, here to take her prize and leave him dead in the dirt. Anger is your closest ally: it melts through the pores in your skin, even in the broken, red-chapped parts of your palm. It's feeling much better now - antihistamines have leeched the poison from your fingertips. But there's still the threat that it'll screw your cycle over, which is _awesome_. Super, super awesome. It's not like you need to schedule weeks off for that sort of thing well ahead of time; no, no. 

You're going to rip his pretty Alpha dick off.

You give a rap on his door, knocking it as though it might fall off the hinges. A brief pause makes you wonder if he's already left for the day - but then the handle clicks.

Today, he's gone for all-black. Black t-shirt, black jeans. The shirt is practically indecent: it shows a myriad of sins as it sticks to his torso, flush against the muscle of his chest. Hair looking unkempt. Burgundy shoes.

He's a walking pin-up for Alphas. He looks like he could break your spine without breaking so much as a sweat in the process.

He runs his fingertips through his hair nervously; leaning against the door frame.

"What do you want?"

He can probably smell your hostility. Smell that you're pissed the fuck off. Smell that you want to be here about as much as he does. The guy's eyes look almost bruised from sleeplessness - worse than you've ever seen it. You've got to wonder whether the faculty cutbacks are taking a strain on his sleeping patterns, or whether there's something else keeping him up at night.

You swallow thickly. It crackles in your throat - the angry, bitter vindication you were feeling as you marched down the corridor dying in the wake of the man before you. He's not going to listen to you. He won't let you in. Not unless you're willing to play ball.

"Can I come in?"

Ben's face scrunches up at your question: scrunches up in a way you don't quite understand.

"I'd...rather you didn't."

Oh. La dee da. We'd all like a lot of things.

You make a hitched, frustrated noise.

"It's important."

It's not quite Alpha voice - but it's close. Close enough that Ben's body language stiffens like he knows he's being threatened. But he doesn't push the issue, even as he moves back from the door to let you in.

It's nice. Less neat than you'd expected. Piles of books on the counter; awards lining the walls. Framed publications. Who frames their publications? The guy must be reeking of self-confidence. The last publication you managed to get pressed ended up on the 'never look at again' pile. Various hot tea packets on a little shelf affixed to one of the walls. Almond milk. He's got a stack of papers to grade lined up on his desk neatly; and it makes you think of all the good reviews he gets from tutoring. He's more human than you gave him credit for.

But the smell - it's the smell that knocks you back to square one. It's overwhelmingly strong - syrupy cinnamon. Less plastic; so much less. It's warm on the roof of your mouth in a way that should make your stomach curl; but it doesn't. The artificial, sticky burning smell is all but gone. Ben's natural scent is so much less invasive than you'd have ever thought it to be. Almost comforting. Soft.

You go to close the door, to click it shut as is custom.

Ben almost growls.

"Leave it."

So you do - you leave his door ajar and go to sit on the plastic seat on the other side of his desk. _He must be worried you'll murder him,_ you think. Not off the cards at this point. He takes a seat at his desk; his cheeks flushed red. Chest barely moving. Like he's...waiting.

"I need to know, Ben."

He doesn't look at you; brown eyes in his lap as he sucks at the inside of his lip nervously. Pheromones dart around him - they're too sticky with plasticky drug residue for you to have a read on. Something's blocking your ability to actually sift through his emotional state, you now realise. It's subtle, very subtle - subtle enough that you expect, if  you weren't looking for it, it'd go totally unnoticed. 

"Know what?"

You huff a laugh: leaning an elbow on your knee as your flex your fingers.

"I know you're on Sarta-whatever. When I grabbed your scent gland, I got an allergic reaction. You're lucky I don't sue."

Ben shoots up from his chair; staggering backwards towards the wall of glass. His fingerprints push against it as though he's trying to sink back into it.

"No, no no" he chants under his breath, dark eyes rimmed red with swallowed tears "Christ, no...I can't be...That's not..."

You're so stunned that it's hard to focus on the way his panic taints the air; the way it tastes like bitter lemon and wild discomfort. Somehow, all notions of anger fly out of the window: all of it. All of the legitimately directed feelings that he's conjured up just...dissipate. It's unnerving, really. How quickly his tone snapping back pushes you into unfamiliar territory.

You don't know what to say. Your mouth stays firmly clamped shut: watching as Ben's chest tries to take in air. He looks like a caged animal: pupils wide, scrambling in his office like a cornered cat, looking to claw out of its skin.

Shakily, he paws at his hair: thick black locks running through his fingers. His eyes squeeze shut; with one shaky breath, he pulls himself together just _enough._

"I've got a prescription" he says, licking at his cracked lips "I've had one since I was fifteen. It's not...Shit, you must've thought I..."

"Thought what?"

He pauses, biting at the words.

"Was abusing it or..." he groans, running his hand over his face, the crook of his nose. "Oh _fuck_ , that's why I've been so lightheaded. I thought it was just the weather but it's not, it's not, I knew this would happen sooner or later and it's happening _now a_ nd I don't know what to do!"

You palm at your hand; watching as the ridges of healing skin pucker at your touch. It's not his fault. He's not abusing it. It's not his fault. He didn't know.

It's not his fault.

Shit.

"How..." you swallow "...Ben, what does it do?"

Ben stills. Stills as his eyes fall to yours; fall to yours with such intensity they feel as though they're burning through you. Dark chocolate against the palest white of his skin. Somewhere on the wall, a clock slowly ticks off, plastic on plastic as the cogs click into place.

His movements are slow - they're so slow. Slow as he moves on shaky legs across the room, clasping and unclasping his palms. With a soft push, he closes the door; pushing his muscled back to it. The guy's 6ft 3; an Alpha. And you're suddenly acutely aware he's got you caged in this little office-

"Don't" he says quietly "I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to..." he chews his plush lip. "See. See if this is just a momentary lapse. Look, I know you hate me. You have every right to. But I want to try something. I'm not going to touch you at all."

Alpha voice. It shudders over you in waves; he's _telling_. And you're fine with that: you genuinely are. Ben Solo might be a dick, and he might've caused you incredible annoyance - but now you just want to know. You have to know.

"No funny business" you warn, stumbling to your feet. Your boots feel clammy: heart all up in your ears. Nervous. He's making you so fucking nervous.

Ben doesn't laugh. His approach is cautious: his scent rising, burning on your tongue as his shoes scuff the carpet. His dark hair drifts in wafts as the air conditioner moves through the room: soft waves on the ocean. Midnight black and shining.

Freckles dust the bridge of his nose; the sound of his breathing just lightly wisping through the space between you. His lips tremble just enough to pull you closer; gravity bringing you to him, drawing you in. You're suddenly, acutely aware that beneath the layers of taut muscle and hard bone, there's something...beautiful. Soft. Intense.

"Ben..." you swallow cautiously; his forehead dipping lightly as he stands a hairs breadth away. Being in this proximity, so close to another Alpha: you should be fearful. Should be. But you can't help yourself; you dip your head lightly, letting him catch the spicy scent at the join between your neck and shoulder.

 _"Shit"_ he whispers - so quietly you're not even sure he's said it at all. "Oh _God."_

He's unstable - so unstable on his feet. Vibrating like a live wire as he takes in your scent: sipping it like it's soothing an ache so acute that there's nothing else for it.

And it's like wildfire. Wildfire as it careens through you: sudden and hard and blisteringly warm. In the wake of your presence, the chemical fragrance is burned away to nothing - burned away as it has been over the last few days, ever since you grasped his scent glands. And fuck, fuck: Ben Solo smells like heaven incarnate. Cinnamon buns, warm chai lattes. Hot chocolates on cold nights. Log cabins and warm firesides and cider at Christmas.

It echoes through your bones: your whole being shuddering as you lock eyes with his. Deep black pupils, framed by lashes; cheeks dusted with blush.

It's chemistry. It's biology.

Like pieces falling into place.

"Who else knows?" you tremble; fingertips reaching out to skim the trace of his bicep in his shirt. His eyes stay locked on yours: lips slightly parted at your ministrations. You just...need to touch him. Need this to be real. It's more biology than conscious want by now - it's reactionary.

A whimper hits the back of his throat.

"My parents. My doctor. A few close friends. I've..." his eyes flutter shut; swallow cracking at his throat "...had an ex-girlfriend. A Beta. She knew. I've never met..."

_A female Alpha my own age._

You laugh quietly; taking in his scent. Fuck. It's getting stronger the more you skim his shirt: the more you let yourself be taken by the moment.

"Me neither. That is, I've never met an..."

Ben's eyes squeeze shut. Anxiety - he's anxious.

"You can say it" he breathes, brow furrowing. "I want you to."

And you want to - you do. It's like your brain knows; knows that if you say it, it'll give him something intangible. Something just out of his reach.

"Omega. Like you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even hate Ben Solo I just like him making him suffer in a variety of misc fics  
> I know nothing about medicine I'm very sorry


	3. Graffiti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He breathes in--this shaky, pained breath--and a quiet groan leaves him. His entire body trembles, every muscle suspended.
> 
> Waiting.
> 
> "Me." It's breathless, it's almost soundless: punched from him in the darkness like the weight of the stars is pushing down on his chest, "this. You--oh God, I--you want this. You want me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long: I was like "where am I going? Somewhere I assume" and now I think I've got it

"Hey there, hot stuff."

Poe sidles up with this slanted half-smile, this award-winning-publication-producing-grin that just makes you grip the flute of your champagne glass a little too tightly. He's all confidence in a grey suit; hair slicked and brown eyes that never give a thing away. If you were getting that much money on grants, who knows? Maybe you'd be half as cocky as this guy.

_Fucking engineers._

You down the fizzy liquid, cocking a brow. There's some sort of weird celebratory gig for the new Vice-Chancellor on: the champagne is comped, which almost makes up for the _very_ average company and _very_ dreadful funding proposals.

"Did you say something?" you scowl.

Poe's smirk just tilts up further - all Alpha, no humility. He's not a bad guy, he's just...a lot. And judging by the way his gaze strokes your throat, he's got some pretty big notions about Alpha-on-Alpha pairings. Maybe it'd turn him on if you threw him onto the buffet table and broke his skull: break him out in a rut if you bit his stupid hand off.

Decisions, decisions.

"I hear you tore Solo a new one at the Union. Really tore his balls off." Poe shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, shrugging. "Pretty hot."

"Yeah," you sniff. "He bothered me with inane shit while I was trying to have a quiet drink."

Poe doesn't take the hint.

"Yeah well, guy thinks he's the next _Big Thing_. Every cross faculty meeting with the guy about the faculty mergers is fucking--"

Poe's smirk dies down as Rey's heels click on the marble floor, her hair curled at the ends in pretty flicks that catch the low lighting just _so._ Sunshine orange scent swirls in the warm air, and you're immediately perking up. It's just so...so easy with her. Maybe it's biological, or maybe it's just the way she is. But there's a simplicity in things around her - it's refreshing. Nice.

She wraps you in a tight hug, and your heart picks up just a little. Can't help it - Omega scents just _do that._

"Sorry. Parking was terrible. Ran out of spare change and then the machine ate my ticket." Her eyes dart to Poe, her throat bobbing. "Dameron."

Poe's pupils dilate just a little bit.

"Rey."

The balance in the conversation is thrown off just a little bit by the dynamic: Poe's scent sitting on the roof of your mouth and making your hair stand on end. It's something you get used to in some ways, but there's an _atmosphere_ that literally can't be worked around. Nature is a bitch.

Poe leans back a little further against the wall. "Saw your paper in the Cambridge Archeological Journal last week. Looked good. Congrats."

Oh. This is unbelievably awkward.

"...Oh. Thanks."

Instinctively, you scan the room for the nearest tray of champagne. Any excuse to make a dash, any excuse to just--

Poe beats you to it.

"Cool, yeah. I'm just..." he gestures at something, steps sloppy as he pushes off and strides away as though he's searching for any bastion he can in a storm of stunted conversation. Rey's wide eyes slowly meet yours...

And you both burst out laughing.

"What was that?" you gasp, eyes beading from laughter. "Is he okay?"

Rey blots her mascara with her finger.

"Ever since we went to that networking conference last year he's been totally emotionally constipated around me. Think walking in on me getting changed might've had something to do with it?"

You grin, puffing up your chest mockingly and putting your thumbs up. _"Saw you in the nude in Amsterdam. Looked good. Congrats!"_

Rey swats you with her palm, but her resulting laugh lights up her face, pushing crinkles to the corners of her eyes. Somewhere off in the background, a delicate piano solo plays: the room is starting to fill out and God, the scents in here are swirling enough to make your mind start to jumble. It's always like this - what's with academia and hiring so many damned Alphas that don't get how to use spray blockers?

"Ugh." Rey gags, hiding her face. "Prick at 6'oclock."

The smile on your face fades as you swivel, leaning over your shoulder across the packed ballroom to get a look through the crowd. Through the sea of pretty formal wear, there's one man standing taller than the rest: charcoal suit hugging at his thick muscles, tie loose around his collar.

Ben Solo.

He looks like a damned movie star - he's got these eyebrows that are so strong, lips that are so full. Hell, his hair is just _like that?_ Where is the _humanity?_

Ben adjusts his cufflinks, smiling politely as one of the older lecturers leans in to say something brief. A strand of his hair flicks over his face, and you've got this sudden compulsion to just--

"Are you ok?"

Rey is staring at you as you whip back around, the look on her face crinkling into worry. You realise you must've been staring for a lot longer than you thought.

Crap. _Crap._

"Uh, yeah." You lick your lips, regaining composure. "Just been a long week."

You don't know if you're imagining the feeling of dark eyes on your back. You're not sure you want to.

* * *

 

The rain is relentless.

 It beats down on the concrete as you lean back in the marble alcove, staring out across the city skyline. Clouds obscure the stars, the smell of cold night air lingering on the roof of your mouth. You're far enough away from everyone now: far enough away that you can catch your breath for a moment. Give yourself a short reprieve before you head back in.

Nobody will come looking for you out here - it's out of the way. Rain will scare them off.

Good.

This feeling in your stomach won't abate: it curls up there, something of an unease that makes you feel off. You scratch at the back of your neck, your gland twitching and sending tingles through your skin. The weather does this: makes you all nervous, all out of sorts when the storms roll in.

You shiver with the weight of it.

The sound of boots on the wet concrete make you snap up, folding your arms and rubbing to maintain warmth as you shimmy deeper into the alcove. There's a splash: the sound of someone rushing through a puddle. 

Ben.

His hair is dripping in the darkness, running rivers down his cheeks and setting little droplets on his lashes. The white of his undershirt sticks to every crease of muscle, and you just want to...

"Nice night," he huffs against the drumming of the rain, shoving his hands in his pockets and standing alongside you. He really is huge. Huge, for a--

"Don't tell me," you thumb at the sleeve of your dress, sucking your lip. "You're escaping the speeches."

Ben chuckles, and you realise-- _fuck_. He has a damned nice laugh. Low, baritone: it reverberates deep in his chest as he kicks a stray pebble with the heel of his boot.

"What gave me away?"

"Well it's not like you're here for the pleasure of my company."

Ben's smile dies down, his face hardening as he swallows. For a few brief moments, he follows your gaze out across the skyline: then, with a slow movement, his eyes shift over to you. Lingering on the side of your face. Lingering on you.

When you turn to him: he snaps away again.

A shiver finds its way at the base of your spine - your feet shift.

And he slowly shrugs off his jacket.

"You're cold," Ben licks his lips, shuffling closer to you. "Here."

You make a move to protest, but it dies in the wake of the warmth embracing your shoulders. The charcoal suit jacket is far too big for you; the sleeves drape limply at your hips, the collar dipping low.

But God, the smell of it. _The smell of it._

It's like everything wonderful rolled into one--intense, so intense. Warmth and cinnamon and richness, tart and lightly spiced and homely. Instinctively, you sniff the collar, and Jesus. You're never giving this jacket back. Ever. To anyone.

You hug the shoulders closer, bringing it in to your core. Has anyone ever smelled this good?

Ben's lips part, his expression unreadable, eyelids heavy with _something_. He seems to be just...lingering next to you. The rain hammers; you inhale his gorgeous jacket, and he's just... _there_. He runs a calloused hand through his hair, the watch on his wrist glinting in the far-off light.

Nervous. Excited. _Nervous_.

His scent flickers between emotions that seem to sharpen and falter with every breath he inhales. His mind is racing in time with his pulse: he's caught somewhere else.

You can smell it on him.

_You can...smell it on him?_

"You..." there's a lump in your throat, and shit, this is inappropriate, but at this point... "you stopped your suppressants?"

Ben's eyes flit out into the distance. After what seems like an eternity, he gives a subtle nod.

"Four days ago."

_Oh. Wow._

His brow quirks, and he inhales sharply as he does a little half shrug.

"I've wanted to change them for a while. This was just...proof. Proof they've run their course."

He doesn't sound quite so certain. His scent fluctuates with fleeting anxiety, tart on the roof of your mouth in a way that makes you antsy, makes the hairs prickle on your neck. The rain drums harder still; Ben stares at his shoes, swallowing hard enough that you can see his throat bob in the dim light.

You sigh.

"I _do_ feel a little guilty..."

"--Don't."

And he says it with such certainty, such conviction, that oh: it's gone. Just like that.

"You know," you fold up your arms, letting his suit jacket envelop you in its delicate scent "Poe tried to come onto me earlier. In the middle of the damn crowd. Ballsiest move."

Ben's brow furrows, his eyes darkening.

"Dameron?"

"Mmmmm."

Ben runs a palm through his hair: this time, it's a quick, irritated thing.

 _"Asshole"_ he mutters.

You try to hide your smile by stretching out your lips, but it's a fleeting victory as it crinkles at the corners.

"You don't approve?" you jest, picking your heel up off the floor and giving him a playful, soft kick on the thigh.

He almost _growls_.

"No," he spits, gritting his teeth. "Not _exactly_."

You flick your wrist dismissively, earrings jingling. "He's not really my type."

Ben's head snaps around: wet shirt clinging to his muscles in the low light. A trail of water drips down his cheek, falling to his collar in a way that makes him look so devastatingly handsome. There's something in his stare - something _hopeful_.

"Because he's an asshole?"

You lick your lips.

"That's not the main reason, no."

Ben takes a step towards you: his boots splashing on the concrete. His scent dances in the air, and crap, it's good, it's _so good_.

His nostrils flare, and yes. You can see he's caught yours: see how his eyes darken and his cheeks grow rosier from the pounding in his veins.

"Because he's an Alpha?"

You hug his jacket close, your heartbeat speeding up. Somewhere off in the distance, thunder illuminates the sky in a flash of white.

"I've got nothing against screwing an Alpha."

Ben steps forward, and Christ: his nose is almost skimming the curve of your jaw as he leans in. The thick, rich waves that roll from him now cause you to shudder - cause your gland to ache and tingle with something you've never felt in all your life.

Compatible. He's so _compatible_.

"Ben..."

He breathes in--this shaky, pained breath--and a quiet groan leaves him. His entire body trembles, every muscle suspended.

Waiting.

 _"Me."_ It's breathless, it's almost soundless: punched from him in the darkness like the weight of the stars is pushing down on his chest, "this. You--oh God, I--you want _this._ You want _me."_

Your veins ignite as you nod, desperate and keening, and in one fluid movement: you crush your lips to his.

If the scent of him was incredible, the _taste_. God, the taste makes you whimper against him and wind your hands through his hair, pulling at his dark locks hard enough that he pushes closer to you, closer still. Eventually your back hits the marble column, and Ben can't help himself: his body pushes flush to yours as your neck cranes against the smooth marble. Through his thin suit pants you can feel a hardness--your brain reels at the thought of it.

Omega cock. So close.

_Holy shit._

_"Please"_ Ben groans against your mouth, fumbling as his lips slide to push against your jaw. "Please, _please."_

"You're so good, Ben. So good--"

He thrusts against you, and your whole body burns with the weight of his scent, his touch, the thick muscles that push against you. This is electricity, it's lightning, it's fire incarnate.

"I've..." Ben's hair licks at your cheek, his nose tickling your jaw "...I've stayed up every night, every fucking night since that day at the Union. Christ, every night I've pumped my cock raw to the taste of your scent on the roof of my mouth and I--" he shudders, and fuck, fuck, you might just cum here, just cum here if this incredible Omega just keeps pushing you like this "--fuck, there's slick in my jeans. I haven't made slick in...I don't know but God, I can feel it, feels so fucking--"

Your gland is starting to itch like crazy; it's wild and it's confusing and you're losing sense and time and all semblance of reality.

"Kiss my gland." You're keening to him, tilting your neck _"I need you to, Ben."_

And it's the Alpha voice: it's there in your chest. Ben's whole body stiffens, his heart picking up as he gives in to the command that speaks to his very bones. His lips find the ridges and whirls of your gland, the patch of skin on your neck...

Eagerly, he sucks.

And everything turns bright white.

You cum like that; pressed against that archway. His cock hard against you, his lips hungrily sucking as he groans like a parched man finding water in the desert. You writhe and keen and sob from it; too far gone to cover the noises that fall from your lips. Ben's body arches over you, and his scent is rolling with it: yes, _yes._ His teeth can't help but move against you, making your legs threaten to give out as the rain pounds in time with your blood.

Somewhere over the sounds of the rain; a door opens. Chattering growing closer, filling the air as you bathe in the afterglow, underwear soaked and eyes drooping as Ben sucks rhythmically.

"We have to go" you whisper huskily "Ben, we have to go back. I have papers to pick up from Kaydel--"

Ben slowly moves from your gland, breathing sharply from the effort. He seems to ache in every movement: uncontrolled and wanting, pulling away with such reluctance that your heart burns.

"I'm sorry," you murmur quietly, leaning your forehead against his "I want to keep going. I want--"

"If I had cum now," he whispers urgently, kissing your cheek "It might've...crap, I felt like I was going to...it was going to..."

Oh.

Oh, God. You know he doesn't want that.

Know what that would mean.

You tear your eyes away, out to the pouring rain, and it physically _hurts_ you.

"Go." Ben swallows. "I'll be fine."

"What about you?"

He laughs breathily.

"There's slick in my jeans and my gland's up. I'll take my chances in my apartment."

Slick in his jeans. Fuck. _Fuck._

 _"_ I'll call" you swallow thickly "I'll...I'll call you."

Ben kisses you once more: plush lips red and swollen as he licks into your mouth. When he pulls away, you groan in protest. He backs off like every step is agony, like every moment is acid in his veins.

"You'd better."

And then you're left alone in the little alcove: smelling of Omega, dripping wet with cum and rain...

Ben Solo's jacket draped around your shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy here I go with my kinks again
> 
> As always, you can find me on Tumblr as [CallMeHopeless](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com/)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> What's that coming over the hill  
> Is it a new fic  
> Is it a new fiiiiiiic  
> [Find me on the Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com/)


End file.
